Deadwood's for the living
by is this siriusly my name
Summary: In a post-war world, where Fred's ghost longs for life once again, a dangerous and potentially devastating quest is undertaken to fulfill his wish. Will the help of George and new found acquaintance Elm Deadwood be enough, or will Death prove too mighty a master? Sorry I suck at summaries.
1. Chapter 1: An Unexpected Meeting

It is said that in the moments before a person dies, the air feels different; incomplete, heavy. A warning sent by none other than Death himself. Such theories had never much interested Elm Deadwood, who in honour of her name had never feared death – in all reality, it was being left behind that she feared, being left to mend the pieces of a broken life after someone else's time had ticked to an end. This was what Elm Deadwood claimed to fear. But in those last few moments as she watched her own death walk calmly towards her, shrouded in the barrel of a well concealed gun, Elm did not feel as though the air was at peace. She did not feel that its warning had come soon enough, as tangled fear enveloped her from the inside out.

She hadn't intended to die that day – beginning much as any other, she found herself falling through work, shopping, pub, home; her usual routine. But much unlike any other, her return home found Elm entering into perhaps the last conversation she would hold, with a complete stranger seated at her kitchen table, helping himself to a small sandwich and drink. It is usually considered safe to say, that when walking in on a stranger helping himself to food inside your own home, you do not engage them in conversation. Instead, you phone the police, leave the house and run for help, or simply batter them with a heavy object until they are rendered unconscious or lying in the arms of Death. All these things however, although presenting themselves fleetingly to Elm, held no interest, no curiosity, as the oddity of the situation gripped her tightly, threatening to engulf her – breaking through the humdrum melodrama of an average life existing in a purely average world. Nothing else at that moment seemed to matter all too terribly to Elm, regardless of the entity feeding himself on her food, other than what had drawn him here, to her kitchen, instead of some other home on some other street.

The prospect of losing such an opportunity was impassable – feeling her feet conduct themselves in a slow march, Elm approached the table, seating herself in the chair exactly opposite her mysterious intruder. She coughed; dusty, shocked vocal chords chiming against interest. She coughed again, louder. The balding man nodded, the air around him singing its warning.

'Who.. who are you?' a small voice, high pitched in involuntary uncomfortability. He nodded again, fingers twisting around the only remaining crust. Elm repeated her question, growing confidence morphing like white hot tendrils into inescapable anger and intrigue.

'Me? My dear I am not someone you want to know. Although I am afraid you do; quite inexplicably, too,' he raised his eyes, meeting hers for a fleeting moment, dark blue irises freezing the blood still pumping through her veins, forming frosted icicles over her heart.

'I don't recognise you,' tilting her head she examined his face – his head – the balding spot surrounded by ever receding hair – the fine patchwork scars coating his forehead – the hair pin mouth raised vindictively, loathingly.

'You won't,' he smiled further, lowering his head and organising the food in front of him; alphabetising the jars, closing the tofurkey packet. She watched him askance, willing him to continue. Finally looking up, his smile flashed higher, bared teeth visible through. 'I'm a man not of your past, but of your future – which I've decided to remove. You don't need it, and neither do I; therefore it is worthless to me,' Elm's features froze, her mouth, pulled purposefully into a delicate, polite smile faltered, dying on her face. The man dipped a hand under the table, returning it to its surface moments later, containing two objects. Elm rose to her feet – she staggered, heart pounding, thumping, pumping blood into her legs willing them, commanding them to move, the air now screaming out its warning, its ghostly, corpse-like mantra stinging her ears.

Upon the table now lay the man's two objects – a heavy wooden stick, mottled and weather-worn, lying peaceably by the side of a much larger weapon. It was from this that Elm felt herself recoil, its slick silver handle and slither-like trigger only too familiar. The pistol was aimed towards her, the line of sight ploughing, unforgiving, through the centre of her stomach. A thought cascaded over her mind – blood splattering over her kitchen, thick red liquid falling down her walls, warm as her heart to the touch, her body, long brown hair, black denim encased legs, pale bare arms flayed in exaggerated death. She flinched painfully, shivering as the man's hand rested over the handle of the gun, his fingertips curling lovingly around it.

'Now, now, don't try and run. It'll only make this last so much longer and I am a very busy man,' his smile gleamed at her, causing her stomach to twist violently with disgust.

'You're busy? Oh, well poor you. I'm so sorry to keep you waiting,' trying to find the nerves in her brain to move her feet, Elm glanced cautiously towards the door, hoping, praying. To no avail. No one came, no one sensed the danger.

'You are a good girl,' his smile widened, his eyes, deceptively kind though they were, glinted with a madness Elm could not deny. 'You'll make this easy for me, won't you? You'll let me – how do we say this – shoot you?' he toyed with the gun, flicking the safety on and off again, the gentle tick mingling into the flowing tune of Death's own clock. A robed hand, skeletal as the plague, wound its way through Elm's chest, clutching softly at the beating entity living within it, though she remained completely unaware. 'Or if you'd prefer,' he glanced at the table, his elfin smile elongating, revealing yet more perfect, white, sharks teeth. 'I could use this. I've been wanting to experiment a bit,' the man exchanged the pistol for the wooden stick, weighing it heftily in one hand.

'What-'

'What is it? Oh I'm sure you don't need to know that, my dear,' he stared at her, his pulse slow and steady, punctuating the silence of his mind, the delicate tick tick rhytheming throughout him.

'If you're not even going to tell me what you plan on killing me with –' her heart lurched, an invisible force, a skeletal hand, gripping ever tighter. '- then at least tell me your name. It's my – my dying request,'

'Well, then I must oblige. This is, is it not, a civilised society?' the man inclined his head, dropping his hand to his side, the wooden weapon clattering against his leg. 'My name is Avery Dormichael. Like dormouse,' the sweet smile returned, eyes locked to hers. 'Now, if you don't mind –' however he had spoken too late. A delicate hand, half the size of his own – however small they were – fell precariously over the gun placed against the tables shining surface, it's fingers closing like a vice. Elm had lunged for it, feeling her chin connect with the wooden surface. She fell to the floor. The man lurched forward, slow from surprise, reaching for her hair. Finding it he heaved, drawing a scream dry as bone from her lips before he crashed her face back down onto the table top.

'Stay still!' all semblance of calm vanished from his face, he raised his hand, the wooden stick pressing painfully into the side of her cheek, breaking the skin and calling ruby-like drops to fall down its end.

'What, so you can kill me?' he struck her, talon-esq nails extending from his hands, finding yet more blood as it washed over her skin, smearing into her makeup.

'I will not be spoken to like that!' he cried out, thrusting the stick yet again into her face, the ghosts of words on his lips. 'Avada –' Elm reached, her fingers connecting with the wood as she took hold of the weapon. Tugging desperately at it, she managed to twist it away from herself, before falling back, yet more talons raking this time over her shoulder splitting clothing and skin as though it were merely paper. She felt herself scream, hoarse and broken with fear.

'I wouldn't do that if I were you,' the strange man, so desperate to cause her death, stopped at the entrance of a new voice. Calm and assured, it entered the fray, gently releasing the corpse-like hand from around Elm's heart, easing the screaming voices floating against the air, drenching them with the promise of life. The absence of blood.

'And you are who, to be telling me what I should and should not do?' to this, the man merely smiled, his flame-red hair flickering as though a wick, beneath the glaring bulb above them.

'Oh, I'm no one you want to know. Ring any bells? Should be – would be if you had any sense. Well.. maybe it won't then,' he smiled wider, sliding a freckled hand underneath the opening of his robe, withdrawing a long wooden stick great in resemblance to that of Avery, only this one was made of light looking, pale brown wood, delicate symbols burned into its surface.

'Impressive wand you have there,' the stout balding man measured, taking a step towards Elm – strewn across the floor she felt herself fade, weaving in and out of consciousness – and away from the strange red-headed figure.

'Could be said,' he merely grinned, reminiscent of that of a Cheshire Cat. 'Or it could just be that yours is about as useful as a Niffler in a snow storm. You sure it can even perform that particular spell? What was it – Avada –' he raised his own 'wand', smirking evilly as the balding man cowered, spluttering for him to halt his words. 'Oh, you don't like that? Well, why don't you just run along and get out of here then. And bare this in mind – I'll be watching this girl. If you come after her again, you won't be so lucky,'

Avery nodded feverently, reduced to muttering, eyes half mad with fright. However, as he turned to leave, the mysterious red-headed man raised his hand – the one that remained empty cascaded down onto the older, shorter man's face, striking blood from his lip where their flesh connected. A departing gift, the red-head allowed Avery Dormichael to leave, turning his attention instead, to Elm. He crouched by her side, gazing gently into her eyes, dimmed and bleary. He smiled.

'Elm? Elm Deadwood? My name's George, I'm going to help,' with these words he placed his hands around her waist, hauling her onto her feet, catching her as she began to fall. They left the kitchen in silence, exiting onto the darkened street beyond, the whispered voices in the air merely murmuring, their warning no longer evident as Fate saw fit to flit a fleeting hand into the turning cogs of her brother's clockwork.

* * *

Author's note: My first chapter! I really hope you all liked it, but I am slightly worried as to whether it's any good, so any feed back via reviews would be so utterly amazing. Follows and favorites would be fantastic also, so please please please if you liked it, do! I've had this story partly written for around a year now, and only recently re opened and edited it, but have yet to continue. I'll probably only do so if I get some feedback, so don't be shy! I'm nothing like that pillock of a man Avery, I don't scratch! :) (I know, my humour's crap, sorry! hahaa). Anywhoo, I've rambled on enough, I really hope you enjoy reading this story as much as I enjoyed writing it. - Siriusly.


	2. Chapter 2: Ghost of Grimmauld Place

Waking in an unknown place always felt like falling to Elm – as consciousness returns, disorientation sets in, and 'up', 'down', 'left' and 'right' tend to have a nasty habit of confusing themselves. That was what it felt like awaking in the house of her saviour; George. She remembered his name, but surprisingly nothing else. Not a face, not a voice, just a name and a disjointed blur of vivid red, whether her own blood or the man's hair, she was not sure. She jerked upright, wincing as she pulled her shoulder – now bandaged and healing, it was less painful but still definitely sore. Holding her hand to her head in protest against the nauseating spinning, Elm glanced around the room; thick, ancient oil paintings hung over every wall, coated in what appeared to be a millennia of dust, burgundy curtains draped the bare wooden floor surrounding the four-poster she lay in, and across the room to Elm's left, stood a stoic-looking door, an aged brass doorknob at waist height.

'What in the name of –'

'-Merlin,' Elm jumped violently, snaking her hair in a loose piece of wood hanging down from above her head. Her heart, clenching in fright, pooled blood through her shoulder and consequently, straight onto her bandages. Her head whipped to the right, eyes raking the quasi-darkness for the source of the voice. She found it – sat hunched in a far corner, legs flung over the arm of the chair, was her saviour, George. Only.. Elm wasn't sure, but the faint lighting of the room seemed to have lent him a rather odd silvery glow. It appeared as though the man was verging upon transparent. 'Sorry there, mug, couldn't resist,' he smiled at her charmingly, brilliant silver teeth flashing through his pale lips.

Elm breathed a sigh of relief – nothing more than a strange man making a strange introduction. Despite this however, she couldn't help but feel there was something different about him. A more youthful persona perhaps, now that he was in the comfort of his own home. Not that Elm could have called the room she lay in 'homely'.

'You're – George – right?' she coughed, her voice raw and unused. The man laughed, the sound seeming to bubble throughout the entire room, lighting each corner of the murky gloom.

'Nah, that's my brother. I'm Fred – Fred Weasley,' he stood, his feet resting inches about the ground, his transparent nature ever more visible. A beam of light looping through a gap in the drapes shone through his face, lighting the wall behind him as though he were not there at all. Elm gasped, rearing back into the headboard.

'You're –'

'Yeah, I'm dead. Never would have noticed it myself – thanks for pointing it out,' he frowned in mock sadness, his silver eyes twinkling devilishly. 'So I take it you've never seen a ghost before, then? To be honest it's a bleeding miracle that a mug-a-lug like you can even see me. I wonder why that is then..' he trailed off, taking a seat precariously on the edge of Elm's bed, a toothy Cheshire Cat grin spreading over his handsome face.

'A – a what, like me?' she asked cautiously, leaning towards Fred and looking intently at either side of his face, her eyes brimming with questions. He merely chuckled at her, turning his face to provide her with a better view as though he were a model.

'Mug-a-lug. My little affectionate term for Muggles – you, non-magic folk,' he twiddled his thumbs together pleasantly, satisfaction riding across his features as confusion clouded Elm's.

'Non- ?'

'Non-magic folk. I'm – I mean I was – a wizard. George still is, what with him still having a pulse and everything,' he smiled. Laughing as pure scepticism spread like ash over Elm's face, Fred stood, floated in a rough sort of pirouette, and seated himself again, this time closer to Elm's side. 'What? You think witches and wizards can't be real even though you're sat here chewing the dragon fat with a ghost? Bit bloody one-sided, aren't you?'

'Ghosts are one thing, wizards are another. And dragons? Either you're crazy, or I am,' Elm felt her shoulders relax, the stinging reduced to a mild throb, her mind unfogging and her eyes adjusting to the distorted view of the room through Fred's face.

'Yep, they're real too. Fancy a tour?' reaching out a hand, Fred took hold of hers, leering jovially as she winced at the cold.

'Blimey, you're like a living freezer – er, sorry,' blood rushed to her face, illuminating her cheekbones with a voluptuous blush. Fred feigned insult before shoving his hand over her mouth and nose. A moment of panic preceded a jolt of shock as the cold sunk through her face, giving her instant brain freeze.

'You should see your face! What, did you think I was trying to suffocate you? Yeah, good luck with that one – my hands about as useful for that as a swarm of nargals. Don't ask,' floating to the door, he turned to face her and paused. 'Well? Are you coming or what?' without waiting for her answer he turned again, sliding with ease through the wooden panels and disappearing from view.

'I really must be crazy,' Elm muttered, shaking her head vigorously as she threw back the heavily draped covers and falling deftly onto the balls of her feet so as to follow after the precocious ghost.

'So, this is the bathroom – well, George's, so I wouldn't use it if I were you – but don't worry, usually it's on the other side of the house, just outside the library, unless George leave towels on the floor. Then it moves into a cupboard in the kitchen. Ah! And THIS is my room – what's that doing here? Sorry, I swore at it this morning, so it must be trying to spite me,' Fred beamed, attempting to kick a small floating swimming pool complete with mermaid-shaped slide out of the way of his bed, and calling it a 'Dunce-capped numb nuts' as his foot glided shimmeringly through it instead. As far as tours went, Elm felt sure this was by far the best. The house in which Fred and George lived and didn't, it seemed, had a mind of its own – just when you were sure the rooms had decided on where they wanted to go, they moved somewhere else, often whilst the occupants were still in them. On many occasions throughout the tour, Fred had been forced to heave a door shut (easier said than done when your hand has a habit of falling through solid objects such as door handles), and invent a quick cock and bull story as to why that particular room was 'as of yet out of bounds to mug-a-lugs with no discerning features'. It also seemed to Elm, that at often times, certain parts of rooms enjoyed a change of scenery; the bathtub from the first bathroom they visited for example, had located itself just inside the doorway of a particularly grimy looking office which seemed to contain no desk, only a tirade of mirrors falling from every unstable surface and shattering into a million minute pieces before reforming so as to begin again. Even objects around the house seemed to be developing some form of consciousness – many of them began growling at Elm if she reached out to inspect them, and a few even tried to bite her, most impressively being an old muggle flashlight.

'Oh, yeah, I wouldn't pick that up if I were you,' Fred simply grinned whenever Elm jetted away from un cooperative display pieces.

Finally finding themselves down in the cavernous basement kitchen, Elm wandered meekly around the edges of a gargantuan oak table, inspecting each chair from a distance before stretching a hand tentatively towards the one closest to the warmly crackling fire.

'No! Not that one!' Fred shot towards her, shoving his hand unceremoniously through her chin as he attempted to halt her progress. She flung her hand away from the chair, fearing whatever kind of abnormal reaction it would present to whomever tried to sit in it. However, Fred merely chuckled, floating through her and taking a seat in it himself. 'That's my chair. Not even George sits in this chair,' the corners of his silvery lips twitched into a warming smile, clenching Elm's very much still beating heart.

'You talk about George rather a lot,' she probed, taking the seat Fred offered her – directly to his left and still impressively warm.

'Well duh,' he grinned, planting his feet with what was meant to be great force onto the table's surface. However, his lack of corporeal substance meant that they landed in utter silence, throwing Elm completely. 'Takes a while to get used to, I know,' he laughed, noticing Elm's reaction to the lack of sound. She shook her head, dazed. Pulling herself free she looked at him.

'What do you mean by duh?'

'I mean hud. Duuhhhh. Hdduuu. In short – isn't it obvious?' Elm again shook her head, feeling she was missing a rather trivial point. Fred sighed dramatically. 'He's my twin – 'course he's bound to come up a lot,'

'Your twin?' she gasped, vacancy filling her deceptively serene green eyes. Fred guffawed loudly, his feet slipping through the table's surface and landing on the floor below.

'You mean you hadn't noticed the remarkable similarities? And while yes, it is technically true that he's older than me – hello mind fuck – we still look pretty much identical,'

'Well, I didn't see George for very long, did I? And I was pretty out of it when I did,' Elm smiled sheepishly, feeling well and truly stupid.

'Fair cop. Still funny though,' Fred beamed wider at her.

'What do you mean – he's technically older than you?' Although she knew what he was about to say, she couldn't help hoping for something else. Talking to a dead man was awkward enough without bringing up the matter and circumstance of his passing.

'Well, I died didn't I? Went and popped my clogs, uncoiled my mortal coil, shuffled gracefully off the waterfall of life, clocked it, snuffed out,' he sniffed loudly, placing both hands onto his transparent silver chest in the rough vicinity of where his heart should have been. 'And so dear Georgie went and got older, while I stayed my merry young self,'

'How much older is he than you?' she asked, voice brimming with barely suppressed curiosity and intrigue. Death had always fascinated Elm – particularly stories of his command over time itself, winding down to his creation of the Horologio Vitam et Mortem, the clock of life and death.

''Bout four years. Well, four years this May 2nd,' Fred stretched avidly, pointing his arms and legs straight out so his feet rested inside Elm's stomach.

'Do you mind?' she laughed, indicating his silvery calves protruding from her body; he grinned wider and shook his head. 'So that's when you – died – May 2nd?' he nodded, his smile somewhat more forced this time. 'H-how?'

'I had a nasty argument with a wall. I think it's safe to say that it came off better in the end – seeing as it's standing again,' he chuckled to himself, widely amused by his own use of humour. Elm on the other hand, was far less impressed.

'You got crushed by a wall?' placing a hand over her mouth, she felt her eyes widen, bulbous lights igniting her face with sympathy and shock.

'Well don't make it sound too dreadful or anything,' Fred said, still refusing to accept the morbid tone the conversation was threatening to envelope them with. 'Hardly remember it – I remember my brother, Percy, making a joke, an explosion and BAM! Lights out, 'til about two weeks later when I just started randomly floating in and out of mine and George's room back home 'til someone saw me,' upon the word 'bam' Fred struck his hands together, a somewhat dejected look flashing in his eyes as no sound billowed forth, but Elm jumped none the less, saving his hurting pride. What Fred had told Elm of the incident involving his death was of course, a complete lie. Fred remembered everything – often times as though it were still happening. He remembered Percy's face as Fred began to laugh at him; bloodied and dirt ridden, he had still looked more relaxed than Fred had seen him in years, and it suited him. He remembered the closing sounds of thunder as table sized rocks began to issue forth from the wall by his side. He remembered Percy's cry, his own lips sealed shut in fear. He remembered the dust rattling against his face and hands, the stones becoming larger, and the ever growing knowledge that he was about to be frog marched away from the living for good. And finally, he remembered thinking of George as a boulder at least as large as Ginny crunched itself into the left side of his head – would he be okay? Would their mother be able to comfort him, or would she be too grief stricken herself? But then he remembered nothing at all, every light in his mind flickering into darkness, plunging him into the frozen, skeletal arms of Death himself. He shook his head slightly, dispelling the last image he has seen as a living man from his mind – rainclouds of rock streaked with the blur of robes and the flash of blood. But that at least seemed to be everyone's memory of the war. Rocks and blood.

Elm knew he was lying, but did not press him – she had never experienced an explosion, but as the image of a gun lying across a table top floated over her mind, she knew he was not hiding the events through malice or cowardice. He simply did not wish to communicate what he alone had felt; one person understanding it was bad enough, let alone two.

'Well isn't this a cheery scene,' the voice was smiling; Elm could hear it in the words. A little deeper than Fred's it contained the same pitch, same syllabic emphasis' – it could belong to no other than George.

'Alright, George?' Fred grinned, sitting up straighter in his chair so that the flames flickered iridescently through his head. ''Bout time you got your arse home. Playing babysitter's a tough job you know,' he winked at Elm who felt her heart flutter, but instead only sneered at Fred mockingly.

'Something tells me I was the one playing babysitter – remember the little incident with the clock?' Fred glowered at her menacingly, but it was too late –she had sparked George's interest, and the red-headed man took the seat opposite her.

'Oh, do tell,' he leered at his brother who began sulking childishly, him arms crossed over his silvery chest.

'Fred had a little run in with a talking clock – it decided it wanted to keep him and so sung him an ickle song. Something along like lines of 'Oh Fred, Fred, my dear dead Fred, won't you tick my –'

'Okay, that's enough!' Fred yelled, waving both hands in the air before turning and floating into the flames. Elm pouted her lip, widening both eyes until they seemed to occupy her entire face.

'Oi, lovebird! Get out of the fire – its bleeding weird seeing you sat in there,' George laughed, sharing a look of sickening affection with Elm resulting in Fred gliding from the room, swearing blindly as he went. 'Ah, he's a lovely chap really. Once you get past the outer shell.. okay, maybe the outer shell never quite ends, but you catch my drift,' he smiled charmingly, revealing to Elm the extent of their likeness. He watched her for a moment as she cast her eyes around the room, Fred's departure bringing with it yet another feeling of insanity; the whole place, however crazy, certainly felt real. Elm was almost surprised that to her, this was the scariest concept – not the talking clocks, or moving rooms, not the ghost she had shared a conversation with or the wizard who had tried to kill her, but just how real the entire thing felt.

'You seem to be coping with all this quite well,' George offered, busying himself with a bowl of soup he had summoned from the stove behind him. The smell wafted over to Elm's nose, reminding her of how hungry she was. 'You haven't run screaming from the house yet, which is normally a good sign,'

'That happen often?' Elm asked playfully, snatching a chunk of bread from George's hands. 'People run screaming?' George chuckled quietly, winking at her.

'Only when Fred pisses off one of the rooms – which is a regular occurrence,' they both laughed, Elm fully well believing this to be true. 'So, no questions? None at all?' George shovelled soup into his mouth, wincing as the steaming liquid hit his throat.

'Oh, so many I would never want to count them,' Elm smiled, forcing calm over her face. George prompted her. 'Who was that man? The one who tried – to kill me?'

'That was Avery Dormichael,' George's face split into a vindictive sneer, hatred bubbling from his placid brown eyes. 'Toss pot. He was a merchant in the last wizarding war, a few years back, selling stuff to the Death Eaters – the bad guys – that they could use against us, and dark artefacts to unsuspecting witches and wizards on our side. Everyone was so scared, they didn't stop to ask what they were buying. If they thought it would protect their families, they bought it. That's all they cared about, not whether or not it turned them into a bleeding great puddle of entrails on the floor soon as they touched it,' he grimaced at his soup, the idea of eating the floating pieces of meat and vegetables suddenly far less appetising.

'So what did he want with me?' Elm urged, leaning closer to the remaining living twin, breathing in the steam from the soup. 'He said I'd know him in my future, and that he didn't need it. What did he mean?'

'Well we don't know, do we?' George mouthed through yet more soup – finally having decided it was not his meal's fault, he had obliged to continue eating it. 'All we know is that he's after you cause he doesn't want you to do whatever it is you're going to do when you meet him properly sometime in the future. Not that that made a huge amount of sense, but you catch my drift,' it was Elm's turn to grimace. So she was meant to meet this Avery person sometime in her future, and do something that would cause him to want to harm her.

'So how did he find out about whatever it is I'm supposed to do?'

'Don't know that one either, I'm afraid,' George said, pushing his now empty bowl away from him and starting in on the bread. 'But look – whatever it is, Fred and I won't let him get you,'

'Why is that? Why are you looking out for me? And as a matter of fact, why can I even see Fred? He told me I shouldn't be able to,' she frowned at him, remembering her first conversation with the pearly man.

'That one's a funny story,' George laughed awkwardly, a burnished red seeping through his cheeks. 'There's um, something interesting about you, Elm, that we noticed the first time we – came across you,' he looked at her slyly, his eyes twinkling with mischief.

'Explain,' she demanded, both fear and anger twirling themselves through her insides, burning her organs as they flowed.

'Fred and I have been looking for something – something we both want a lot. And during our search, we came across your family – all the legends, myths, stories. We thought they might be useful to us, and they were, very,'

'Oh not you as well!' Elm cried, exasperation gripping her through her vice of anger. 'Everyone I've ever met has heard of those stories. I'm still not entirely convinced they're real,'

'You're selling your family a bit short there, mate,' George laughed mirthlessly. 'They're all true, every last one of them. Even the one about your dear Great Granddad being part wolf – one of the last of his kind in the world, apparently. A trait only passed down through blood; a trait I'm afraid to say, he passed a bit of to you,' Elm simply stared at him.

'What are you saying – that I'm, I'm a _monster?_ '

'No more than he was. And like I said, he only passed a bit of it to you – you'll probably never transform, you just have a few of the traits. The temper, the seeing ghosts, the wolfish looks –' he paused, seeing Elm's eyes flash dangerously. 'I-I mean, as in you look.. impressive.. you know.. wolfish.. anyway. Fred and I figured this along with everything else, could come in handy if we knew you, so we started digging around a little bit more, and that's when we caught a whiff of Avery – we were following you to work one day so we could talk to you, but Fred spotted that little pillock following you too, and he didn't look to happy to see you, so we decided to keep an eye out. Then, two nights ago he attacked you,'

'Two nights ago? I've been here that long?' Elm stared at him, startled. He merely nodded. 'So if that's why I can see Fred, then why do you need me? What for?'

'To help us find what we're looking for. A few of the myths surrounding your family said that your ancestors knew Fate –'

'You mean to say you think Fate is real as well?'

'A real person, yes. How can you not when you've seen this place?' He gestured at large to the room around them. 'She's supposedly the sister of Death, but she's always taken a liking to humans, where Death hasn't. He's purely professional. She was meant to have given your Grandmother something when she was young –'

'-A locket, that would contain the pictures of those in her family who were next to suffer or die, so she could warn them or help them to avoid tragedy,' Elm interrupted, recalling the tale her Grandmother had often told her when she was young, holding out a beautiful antique locket for Elm to marvel at before tucking it safely between her shirts, out of sight of prying eyes. 'I always thought she was making it up, trying to make our family sound more interesting or something. She never looked it in after my Granddad, though – said she didn't want to know who else was going to die,'

'Yeah, I know. So we thought, seeing as Fate seems to really like your family, that you might be able to help us persuade her to take something we want from her dear brother – Death,' George beamed at her, enjoying the situation more than Elm was comfortable with.

'You want me to help you.. steal from Death? Are you crazy? He'd kill us!'

'Ah, but here's the trick – he can't. When he made the deal with whoever it was, all those millennia ago, that made him Death, he made another deal, that he would never harm anyone who was living so long as they didn't steal from his person. If they tried to steal something from him and he noticed, he could kill them as much as he liked. That's why we need Fate on our side,' he snickered madly.

'So what exactly is it that you're after?' Elm asked, fairly certain she didn't want to know. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Fred glide through the doorway, an uncharacteristically serious look on his face.

'A clock,' he said brightly, forcing his tone. He looked at George. 'A clock that will bring me back to life,'

Elm gawped at him, not sure whether or not to take him seriously. Having only known Fred for a few hours, she had already learnt to be wary of the things he said, as the majority of them were not true. In fact, she had found hardly anything he had told her to be believable. 'You are kidding me, right?' she said at last, drawing a dry laugh from both twins.

'Nope, not in the slightest,' Fred smiled demurely – completely unlike himself.

'This clock can bring people back to life, whether they've crossed over or not, and we want it. I want Fred alive again,' George said, looking guiltily at his brother who struck a hand to his chest, mimicking being shot in the heart, or there lack of.

'Why would you come back to life, only to die again later? Why not just cross over?' Elm looked from brother to brother, filling her eyes with yet more questions.

'You really didn't pay much attention to those stories, did you?' Fred laughed sagely. 'Once a buggered person makes their choice, its final. If you stay as a ghost, you're a ghost forever, same way if you cross over, you can never come back. But I for one, don't recall being given a choice. And I'd quite like to not be alone for the rest of eternity as well,' he grinned devilishly, drawing one small smile from George for his trouble.

'Yeah, same here, but I doubt Freddie over there will ever let me come back as a ghost, so this is our last option,'

'And I do bleeding miss things.. stew, apple pie, socks.. and sex, come to think of it,'

'Thanks for that, Fred,' Elm muttered, desperate to hide her laugh, but failing miserably.

'Socks?' George asked, smirking at Fred who had plunked himself down into the seat by the fire again, and was shoving his feet into the flickering flames in an attempt to warm them. To no one's surprise, it did not work.

'Hey, you'd be surprised how much you miss nice clean socks after four years of being stuck in the same pair you were wearing when you kicked the almighty bucket,' Fred grinned toothily at Elm who could not help but imagine being stuck in the same pair of socks for four years – she wrinkled her nose in protest, grimacing madly, to which both Weasley's snickered.

'So how does this clock work, then?' she asked, curiosity getting the better of her. However, she could not help but feel like the cat whose lives were slowly running out due to its nosey little nose.

'We don't know,' George sighed, shooting a glare at Fred.

'Hey, don't blame me – it's quite difficult turning pages with fingers made of air, you know,'

'You two don't seem to know a lot, do you?' Elm laughed, watching both brothers interestedly. 'Do you at least know what else the clock does?'

'No,' Fred snapped. 'But unlike lugless over there, I do know what it's called – _Horologio Vitam et Mortem_, it's Latin for –'

'The clock of life and death,' she interrupted, her face vacant, her heart ticking slowly, sickeningly inside her chest.

'You know it?'

'I don't just know it, Fred, I feel as though I should own it, I know so much about it. It was all my Granddad ever talked about – until he sought it out and died for it,' Neither twin spoke, waiting on baited breath – or lack of – for Elm to continue, but she did not. Instead she raised herself from her seat and stepped towards the fire, her eyes following the dancing flames, Fred's feet now safely tucked beneath the table.

'Well?' George urged, swapping a glance with Fred. 'You going to tell us what happened or keep us waiting 'til Fred pops back to life of his own accord?' Elm stared at him askance, a bitter twist mingling the corners of her mouth.

'Well, you know about my Grandma and Fate –' both nodded feverently. '- on my Grandmother's deathbed, there was a woman there with her. I was only twelve, so I never realised who she could have been, but now I'm guessing it was Fate. They got into the worst fight I've ever seen. All I could hear for hours was things smashing; all Fate's doing. Turns out my Grandma blamed her for not saving my Grandfather from her brother. When Fate told him she couldn't get him the clock, he became obsessed with finding out how to get it on his own. So he tried. He got so close he could take hold of Death's cloak, but as soon as he did, Death tore him limb from limb. Of course, before then he'd told me exactly how to use it,' she breathed a sigh, picking up a small piece of filthy black coal and throwing it heavily into the fire. Fred and George nodded their heads, waiting for her to expand. This time, it did not take her long. 'Turns out, if you wind back the hands, every time they pass by a number, a face appears there – the face of someone you know who's died. If you were to press the cog in while a face is illuminated, it supposedly brings that person back to life. Sounds simple enough, right?' She snickered darkly. 'But I doubt Fate would help,'

'Why's that?' Fred asked, his smile dropping.

'She hasn't seen anyone in my family since that day with my Grandma, and she isn't easy to find if she doesn't want to be – Believe me, I've tried. Also, she never exactly liked me that much, I was always too sarcastic for her, like my Granddad,'

'That'd be the wolf,' Fred and George said together, smirking. Elm glared at them.

'Well it's worth a shot anyway, isn't it? I mean, what harm is there in trying?' Fred asked grinning, attempting to pick a piece of bread from the table and watching as his fingers fell through it.

'That's true – we'll never know unless we try,' George conceded, smiling imploringly up at Elm who wavered. Over the hours she had known them, she had found herself growing fonder and fonder of their antics, not to mention the fact that they had saved her life. But she could not wrap her head around the impossibility of the situation, and not only that, but the idea of dropping her life, everything and everyone she knew, for a ghost and his brother. 'So, you up for helping us out? We'll pay you and everything –'

'- and we'll give you a room –'

'- and Fred will cook –'

' – I will not! But we will let you cook –'

'- and you don't even have to clean or anything –'

'- a house elf pretty much came free with this place,' the looks on their identical faces almost had Elm convinced. Not only did they look so eager and hopeful, but they looked as though they genuinely wanted her to stay. Genuinely wanted her living in their house. However, it was only almost.

She frowned miserably, her eyes beginning to bug. 'I'm so sorry, I-I can't,' Fred gawped at her.

'What-why?' George asked, staring from her to Fred who was still looking remarkably like a fish out of water.

'I have a life, I can't drop it. Do you really expect me to lie about all this to everyone I know? And what if- what if something happened to me?' Fred closed his mouth.

'Why would anything happen to you? It's not like you'll be going after Death on your own,'

'I just can't – I'm sorry. Look, I've already helped you out with the clock; at least now you know how to use it. I should probably leave –' Elm turned to go, but was stopped by Fred who swept purposefully through her, blocking the door in a deliberate gesture.

'Nah, you're not,' he grinned, staring resolutely into her eyes. She stared back, contemplating stepping through his chest, but deciding it would be far too intimate an action.

'And why's that?' she merely asked, cocking her head to the right.

''Cause, what if Avery Dormichael were to get you?' George leered, leaning to his feet so as to stand by his brother, his right elbow grazing Fred's non-existent liver.

'Yeah, you don't really want to go home, only to be murdered a day later, do you?' Fred joined, taking a step closer. Elm backed away, nerves spinning themselves around her mind.

'Are you – threatening me?' she asked cautiously, preparing to run for it – there was a person sized gap through Fred that should could escape through, if only George didn't have his wand..

'What? 'Course not!' they yelled, their faces alight with mock indignation.

'We were just thinking, that you could at least stay here for a while –'

'- you know, just until the Aurors catch Avery –'

'-don't want our fluffy little wolfy friend getting torn to pieces, do we?' Fred winked theatrically, swinging himself up onto his heels.

'God forbid that should ever happen,' Elm said, winking back as her heart slowed to its usual pace. 'That'd mean I was stuck with you forever!' she laughed and dived out of reach as Fred made a grab for her hair, only to fall through George who cried out in complaint.

'Either find a way to warm up, or stay out of my chest!' he turned on his heels, walking towards the base of the stairs. 'Oi, mug, I'll show you to your room if you like,' as a statement, Elm assumed he did not plan for her to abject.

'You don't even know if I'm staying yet,' she muttered as yet again, she found Fred's spectral hand floating easily through her face as he stood floating behind her. 'And can't I keep the room I was in before? It's filthy, but I quite like it,'

'She only likes it 'cause it's close to my room,' Fred winked, grinning evilly up at George who guffawed.

'In your dreams mate, oh wait – you can't dream. My bad,' he smirked. 'Yeah, I guess you could keep that one, but there's one twice the size on the third floor – there's a bathroom attached to it, and there's all these cool old books. Thought you might like it,'

'And it's just a tad cleaner,' Fred laughed, pretending to find a stray spider on Elm's clothes making her shiver madly.

'Oh alright, alright, I'll stay AND I'll take that other room – only until Avery's locked up though,' she added, watching with a hint of mourning as both twins' faces fell slightly.

'Well then, looks like you'll be coming to dinner next week,' Fred smiled at her after a few moments of awkward silence. He floated along her side as she began the trek towards her new temporary bedroom. Elm looked at him quizzically. 'Every month our mum does this bleeding huge dinner for everyone in the family – that's fourteen people – and she's been bugging George and I to find someone to take along. Although I think she keeps forgetting I'm dead, and not many girls are into that sort of thing,' he winked at her slyly, grinning as she choked into the back of her hand. 'George only hasn't got a date 'cause he feels guilty about me. Stupid git,' he frowned, but quickly recovered by asking Elm about her personal life. 'Got a boyfriend?

'What? No,' Elm said, taken a back – having been only half listening as they ascended the stairs into unknown territory, it had taken her a few moments to comprehend what he had asked. 'I did, but that was almost a year ago now. He dumped me,' she laughed bitterly, while Fred seemed to be enjoying the idea of Elm being dumped.

'Ah, well then you can go to the dinner with me,' he nudged her, and much to Elm's surprise, she felt his elbow connect with hers, a delicate tingling sensation rubbing through the sleeves of George's borrowed jumper.

'Is that a date you're asking me on? I'm not quite that desperate,'

'Not a date, just tell my mum I'm not a totally single looser, and I promise I won't pick on you – for a WHOLE night,' he smiled pleasantly.

'Hmm.. a whole night of you being quiet? Deal,' she grinned, sticking her finger through his chest, saying 'just don't embarrass me, and we'll get along great,' Elm turned and continued on up the stairs, laughing as she heard George's distant voice calling down to them that her new room had apparently decided it wanted to create its own floor, and had put it four floors above the rest. 'By the way – where are we?'

'What do you mean?' Fred asked, confusion plaguing his attractive features. 'Did poor ickle mug-a-lug not pay attention to the tour?'

'Well, for one, you never took me up here –' Fred simply shrugged. '- and for two, I meant where's the house,' he grinned his Alice in Wonderland grin, before tapping his silver nose sneakily.

'Muggles aren't allowed to know deep dark secrets like that one,'

'Fine, I'll just walk out the front door then –' Fred tried to grab her arm, but instead threw his hand through it and the wall opposite.

'Damn! Fine, I'll tell you. You just had to spoil the fun, didn't you?' Elm nodded happily. 'Number 12 Grimmauld Place, London,' he bared his teeth.

'There is no number 12 – I used to visit a house down the road when I was little, and there is no number 12, it's all odd numbers down here,' she looked at him gone out. If that was his best idea for a joke, then she really hoped he hadn't spent long planning it. He laughed at her, tapping his nose again. A violent bolt of realisation hit her. 'Oh! It's magic!' Fred nodded.

'Used to be, that muggles couldn't ever get in, and you needed a magical password to make the house show up, but when our Friend Harry gave it to us we changed it. Now, so long as you've been in it once – there are other ways in and out, don't worry – all you have to do is stand between numbers 11 and 13 and think about it, then taa daa, out it pops,' he floated past her and up the final few stairs until he stood before a door marked with a small brass plaque. Leaning close he read out the name adorned upon it. 'Vilicent R. Black. Well they must have had a fun time at school,'

Elm chuckled, reaching through his stomach to take hold of the door handle. 'Mind moving out of the way there, Casper?' she winked devilishly.

'Casper? Is that some sort of crappy muggle insult relating to my rather transparent nature?' Fred asked, feigning hurt. Elm nodded and laughed wearily; she was getting quite tired of constantly having to explain her 'muggle oddities' as Fred had called them.

'He's a cartoon – a friendly ghost who's always getting into trouble,'

'Well, you can't mean me then, I'm hardly friendly,' he smiled, showing every single silvery tooth. 'Right, I best let you sleep. Your face is looking better, by the way,' he mused, reaching out a hand so as to stroke a finger down the deep red scar running the length of her face. The other two scars had almost faded completely, but to Elm's great exasperation, the third and longest cut was refusing to disappear. She flinched as his cold finger broke slightly through her face; however it was Fred's proximity that caused her heart to clench painfully behind her ribs. She smiled tentatively, allowing Fred to trace the scar in its entirety before watching him float away from the door and down the hall.

''Night, mug-a-lug,' he called, throwing her one last lingering sneer as she closed the door behind her.

* * *

Author's note: So this is my second chapter, I'm hoping you'll have liked it! As per usual, I'm worrying that no one will, hahaa, so reviews/favorites/follows would be beyond greatly appreciated! I spent a long - and I mean LOONNNGG - time editing this, but my natural ability to spell is atrocious, so if any errors are spotted, I would love for you to tell me and I'll fix it :) Thank you for reading! Enjoy! - Siriusly.


	3. Chapter 3 Dinner and Death aren't a date

**Author's note: So, as of yet I haven't had any reviews *cries*, and I would really appreciate them, if they're not too much trouble! :) After this chapter I have around six more pages written, but then there's simply nada. Zip. Zilch. Finito. And I'm afraid that without some form of feedback, I won't have the confidence in my story to break my year-long write-o-block, and no one (bar me!) shall ever know if Fred were to get his wish and be a real boy once again! *cries again*. I really do hope that anyone who reads this is enjoying it, so please please please and PLEASE find it in your lovely fanfiction hearts to leave me a few words expressing your enjoyment :) or hatred.. but preferably the former. :) -Siriusly **

As the days of the week that followed flew by, Elm found herself falling more and more in love with number 12 Grimmauld Place; its dark, dank hallways ignited gloomily by burning gas lamps, its various oil paintings, all of whom now seemed perfectly comfortable to walk from frame to frame, and often engaged Elm in light conversation, the roaring fires stoked in each room by the mysterious house elf named Kreature, and even Fred and George themselves, who had a knack for turning even the most dismal of places warm and inviting with their harsh wit and charming grins. However, it was not these factors alone that caused Elm's swelling love for the place – it was something of an enigma, both laid bare for her to see and explore, while simultaneously holding back a past that she was not sure she wanted to know. It was this unfathomable persuasion that planted the seeds of temptation within her mind; was she at all sure she ever wanted to leave? She was not even sure that she missed home anymore, not with Fred and George for company, at least.

Finally the day of Mrs. Weasley's family dinner arrived, and without knowing why, Elm became aware of an impenetrable nervousness spreading throughout her. Both Fred and George had told her many stories of their antics while at home, and of their mother's various reactions, but none had instilled within Elm a great feeling of ease – indeed, many had caused her to come to the conclusion that Mrs. Weasley would despise her before she set a foot through the threshold.

At around five pm, a knock resonated through her room as George rapped on the door. Calling him in, she waited, perched on the edge of the over-sized four-poster bed they had bequeathed to her, for him to enter and take his own seat by the window.

'Well, you look nice,' he grinned, an evil smile spreading slowly. 'Trying to impress someone, are we?'

'No,' Elm snapped, turning away her head so as to lessen the mass of lipstick weighing down her mouth with a finger. 'I just, wanted to look nice,'

'You've over-dressed, mate. No one there's going to look nice other than myself and Fred, as per usual. Although, Fred doesn't really scrub up too well, what with still being in the same clothes he snuffed it in,' he coughed to hide his laugh, but in doing so twitched and stumbled from his chair. Finding this greatly amusing, Elm's nerves lessened slightly.

'Aw, well aren't you a caring brother,' she joked, standing to walk to her wardrobe where she had tossed her few pairs of jeans. Once there she hid within its depths and traded her evening dress for a plain black pair and a navy blue top.

'That I am,' George said, his voice smiling warmly. 'Right, we best get cracking then, if we want to get there before everyone else – trust me, you don't want to walk in there when everyone's already in the kitchen if you're nervous,' he added as he pulled her from the wardrobe and inspected the anxious lines appearing around her eyes.

'Right – how do I look now? Still too much?' George tilted his head before waving his wand, removing just under half of her makeup. He grinned.

'Smashing. And that scar's gone down quite a lot, too. Now it only looks like you had it out with an angry lawnmower,' he chuckled appreciatively as he lead the way from the room – Elm having explained the wonder of muggle lawnmowers, had been forced to endure no end of taunts.

'Well if you had've gotten your bleeding arse there sooner, I might never have gotten this,' she glowered, pointing dejectedly at her face. The scar had been playing on her mind ever since the incident, making the first trip home only too memorable – and horrific. Again George laughed.

'Yeah, but then you wouldn't match Bill, would you? I'm sure you'll be having it out with Fleur next, on which one of you takes him home. Good luck with that,' Fred had told Elm of their oldest brother Bill's encounter with a werewolf by the name Greyback, and later of his wedding to, and child with, quarter Veela Fleur Delacour. He was apparently the best looking member of the family. _He really must be something to out-do Fred, then._ The thought had slipped out before she could stop it, taking her completely by surprise. However, George simply assumed her stunned silence was shock due to the bright green flames he was indicating for her to step into. 'In you go then,'

'In there? I'll burn, you daft pillock,' Elm muttered while Fred and George laughed to each other.

'Nah you won't, you git. It's floo powder – wizard transportation,' Fred grinned, attempting to push her forward and failing.

'Ah, see, wizard transportation, not witch transportation. Or little furry wolf transportation either, come to think of it,'

Both twins exploded into laughter, thoroughly impressed with her wit. However, George took that moment to grab hold of her elbow, and haul her unceremoniously into the dancing flames. 'Yell 'the Burrow', and it'll take you there!' he called, stepping back. Doing as she was told, she felt herself tugged from the room and thrown riotously into an unknown nothingness, flashes of fireplaces and living rooms glinting through the darkness as she passed by house after house. Once she was sure a mere few seconds had passed, Elm slowed, her feet hitting solid ground, her body being thrown forward, connecting painfully with a threadbare hearthrug in what she assumed was the Weasley's front room. This house was nothing close to Grimmauld place; the living room alone held more warmth and light than all the twins' rooms combined, and picture after picture of waving red-headed faces smiled down at her, a few laughing at her undignified entrance.

'Oh shut up,' she told them as she heaved herself onto her feet, her previously wounded shoulder beginning to ache mildly. She traced the floor with her feet, examining each picture in turn – seven out of the nine faces she did not recognise, but two identical, Cheshire Cat grins stood out amongst the rest. She followed Fred and George across their lives; red-tufted babies sitting sulkily on the laps of two young boys, maturing teenagers, evil leers adorning their mouths, wooden clubs held in their hands, two young men –

Elm stopped. This was the last picture of either of them around the entire room, and it did not take a genius to figure out why; it had been the last picture taken of Fred Weasley before he had died. Bright eyed and vividly haired, Fred looked completely out of place next to his brother, whose own hair looked all the brighter for lack of contrast – a complete oxymoron, just like the twins themselves. Elm found it excruciating looking into Fred's very much living face, his freckled cheeks reddening in the sun beating down onto the entrance of their renowned shop, Weasley's Wizard Wheezes. His eyes seemed to hold a happiness they now lacked, or perhaps the lack of colour in Fred's permanently silvered face reduced the spectrum of visible emotions. By George's side, they looked invincible, unbeatable. Alive. Both wore deep magenta robes and sparkling smiles, George's cursed-off ear slightly more visible due to the wounds youth. Elm felt someone stir behind her.

'He looks so happy in that photo,' the woman's voice was the epitome of motherhood – warm and caring, it seemed to seep into Elm's bones. 'Mind you, he always looks happy. Even now,' Elm turned to look at her. She was a plump, stocky, aging witch, her vivid red hair falling loosely around her welcoming face. She could be none other than Mrs. Weasley. 'You must be Elm. My, you do look so different awake,'

Elm started. 'I'm sorry?'

'Oh, they didn't tell you? Well, I should hardly be surprised, really, you know what Fred and George are like – useless. I'm their mother, I looked after you when they first took you to their house, after that awful Avery man attacked you. I dare say those cuts on your face have only heeled so quickly because George had sense enough to call for me. They do look quite a bit better. How are you feeling?' It was a rush to keep up, but stumbling over her thoughts, Elm finally managed to organise them into speech.

'Oh, I'm feeling much better, thank you. Mostly because George finally stopped letting Fred try and cook – he hasn't quite figured out that most things can't be served raw when they're still squeaking,' Mrs. Weasley chuckled fondly at this, bustling over to a sofa where a large blanket lay folded over the back of it. She began re-folding it slowly, her hands trembling slightly. 'Can I say thank you, for looking after me, I mean. You didn't have to do that,'

Mrs. Weasley smiled. 'Oh don't be silly dear, of course I did. And it was no trouble – I had plenty of practice with Fred and George while they were growing up, in and out of St. Mungo's Hospital every other week, well I'm sure you can imagine. And then poor Bill, being attacked by Greyback, and George, losing his ear, bless him. Quite the accident prone family, we are, I'm afraid,'

'Oh I'm sure it's no more than my family,' Elm smiled, attempting to relieve the tension that had begun to form. 'Although perhaps a touch more.. colourful,' Mrs. Weasley laughed, her hands relaxing.

'Yes, I'm sure it is. Where are those boys anyway?'

'I'm sure they're just trying to make me as awkward as possible – I was kind of nervous coming here,' she smiled sheepishly.

'Why ever would you be nervous, dear?' Mrs. Weasley asked kindly, offering a seat which she gladly took.

'Well, I wasn't sure you'd all like me, to be honest. I am kind of new to all this. And I'm not sure what you all think of – of my heritage,'

'Personally, I think it's all over-rated just like werewolves. Werewolves have such an awful reputation, but I knew a lovely man with the condition by the name of Remus Lupin. Very sad – he died the same day as Fred, you know?' her voice tremored. 'Yes, he was lovely, taught all the younger ones Defence Against The Dark Arts for a year. Fred and George's fifth, Harry and Ron's third, and Ginny's Second. I suppose you don't know any of their names, do you?'

Elm grinned – Fred and George had told her all about their family. 'Actually, I do. The twins explained it all to me – so maybe you should tell me again, in case they lied?' they both laughed heartily. After a few moments of awkward silence, Mrs. Weasley stood, glancing nervously at the fireplace.

'You don't fancy popping back through do you, and checking where they are?'

'You're not fussing again, are you mum?' the voice was filled with amusement, drifting from the doorway to the kitchen, and coming from a tall, handsome red-headed man, whose face was burdened by thick, heavy scars down it's left side. It could have been none other than Bill Weasley.

'Of course not, Bill, don't be silly,' Mrs. Weasley flapped, walking moodily from the room, leaving Bill and Elm alone.

'Don't mind her,' he said, smiling kindly. 'She just worries about those two, living on their own – well, I guess they don't now,' he winked. Elm smiled shyly – George had been right in assuming that she would not have minded taking him home. 'I'm Bill, but I'm sure you know that,' he stuck out his hand for her to grasp; she did so tentatively. 'Nice scars,'

'Courtesy of Avery Dormichael. I'm hoping to repay the favour in earnest. I'm Elm, by the way,' their hands rung together, his warm in hers. He smiled knowingly.

'Yeah, Fred's spoken of you,' Elm's heart fluttered in a disturbingly pleasant way. 'All nice things, don't worry,'

She felt her hand relax, and realised she had been tensing it. 'So I hear you're married?' she asked, hiding her reddening face as she turned to look for more photos.

'Yeah, I have a daughter too – Victoire. They're around here somewhere,' he smiled, pride illuminating his face so that the scars faded as though painted. A commotion from the kitchen drew both scarred faces away from each other, moving their feet in its general direction. Upon entering the room, Elm was surprised to see Fred and George standing over a mound of dishes scattered across the floor, a wand held precariously in the dead man's hand.

'Oops,' he grinned, smirking at George who was struggling for breath. 'Looks like I haven't quite got the magic down yet. And blimey – that wore me out!' he puffed out his transparent chest, drawing in a deep, meaningless breath as he looked into Elm's face.

'Alright mug-a-lug?' his statement drew a few strange looks from the various other inhabitants of the kitchen; a young red-headed woman holding the hand of a short man with black hair and glasses, a tall, bushy haired woman standing closely behind another Weasley male, and the most stunningly beautiful woman Elm had ever seen. She possessed hair of the purest silver, reminiscent perhaps, of Fred's, but her face was vividly alive with passion and love as she glanced at Bill, a young girl with the same flowing hair, running into his arms. Elm looked back at Fred, remembering she had yet to answer, but now all eyes rested on her.

'Er – yeah. You two took your merry little time, didn't you?' feeling her face thicken with blood, she glanced back at the beautiful woman she assumed to be Fleur, Bill's wife. She was watching Elm curiously, eyeing the scars running down her face with apprehension and anger.

'Aw, did little Elmo miss us?' George leered, picking his wand back up from the floor as it slid unobstructed through Fred's still closed hand.

'Not in the slightest,' she smiled, walking forwards to take a seat opposite the only Weasley girl. 'I was just wondering whether Fred had been blown away by someone sneezing too close to their fireplace,' Elm was grateful for the laughter that filled the room, and the look of loathing that flashed in Fred's pearly eyes.

'You know what?' the red-headed woman asked, looking Elm in the face. 'I reckon I'm going to like you. I'm Ginny,'

'Elm,' she replied, smiling kindly at her and her husband. 'You're -?'

'Harry, Harry Potter,' he said, sounding resigned. Taken aback, Elm shot a look to Fred, askance, but he merely shook his head, an expression of warning on his jovial face.

'N-nice to meet you?' she considered extending her hand, but the initial rebuff had quenched her confidence. Ginny glared at him.

'Don't mind him – he's being a prick. Harry, I hardly think she's going to ask you for an autograph,' the dark haired man allowed a small, tired smile but did not reply. 'He's just been working too hard – tired, you know?' Ginny said, now only for Elm. She nodded politely. Of course, she completely understood.

'This is my wife, Fleur,' Bill said, smiling down at Elm as he walked towards the beautiful blonde woman. Fleur merely raised her head, sniffing disdainfully.

'Eet eez nice to meet you, I am sure,' her accent was thick French, her voice clearly telling Elm she was speaking a blatant lie. Bill smirked.

'She likes to pretend she's hard to get along with, but she's all warm and fluffy on the inside,' he kissed the side of her head affectionately, to which Fleur's face melted slightly. Fred and George shared a snicker, turning to introduce the remaining two people.

'And this is little Ronniekins,' George said, beaming as he pointed to the red-headed man.

'And his lovely know-it-all wife, Hermione,' Fred concluded, pointing his finger through the woman's face. She wafted her hand through his arm to no avail.

'Fred – I'm only a know-it-all in your books because I know more than you do. Not that that takes a lot,' Hermione leered, looking the ghost full in his transparent face. Fred grinned back at her ecstatically.

'If that's what you think, Hermy, then good for you, but George and I are currently expanding our knowledge quite considerably –'

'- and with some impressive stuff, too,' George interrupted, sitting down next to Ginny. Bill looked at them sceptically.

'What kind of knowledge would this be, then?' he asked, hoisting Victoire higher in his arms; she squirmed slightly, reaching a small hand out to prod his scars playfully. Fred and George merely winked, both in perfect unison though neither was looking at the other. Their bond often had the effect of unnerving Elm, as though she were looking at a reflection of George plus an ear whenever she caught sight of Fred – this thought provoked an instant guilt, reddening her face madly.

'What 'appened to your face?' Fleur blurted bluntly, staring down at Elm from where she stood. Both Bill and Fred looked as though they would quite like to shove their hands over Fleur's mouth, but Elm smiled kindly, stroking a finger along the scar that ran over the bridge of her nose – it also crossed her left eye and had lifted the right hand corner of her mouth into the subtlest of permanent smirks.

'I got attacked by Avery Dormichael – nasty little bastard who seems to be able to conjure talons from his hands,' her face twisted into a grimace and she glanced at the twins, gauging their reaction; neither looked at her, settling for squabbling over one of the remaining chairs. Fleur grunted.

'Well, zat eez far from being as 'orrible as what 'appened to Bill – 'e was attacked by a werewolf,' she spat the last word, her beautiful face tearing into a look of pure venom. Bill opened his mouth to speak, but it was Ron, the quietest of the group so far, who spoke instead.

'Who cares about how horrible it is, Fleur?' he asked, drawing a wry grin from his wife's face. 'I'm sure Elm wishes she'd never met Avery,' Elm smiled at him – it was true, she certainty did wish she had never encountered the vicious little man, but at the same time, without their encounter, she would never have come across Fred and George; at this her heart lurched reproachfully.

'He has a point, honey,' Bill told her quietly, inclining his head to hers, causing a surge of jealousy to run untamed through Elm's chest. Besides Fred and George, she was the only single person in the room. Fleur pulled her head away from Bill, frowning.

'I do not care, I theenk she enjoys zis far too much. All zis magic stuff,' she tossed her silvery hair, pulling Victoire from her father's arms and walking with her towards the door. 'Call me when ze dinner is ready – I am going to rest,' with that she turned and stalked from the room, leaving in her wake, the astounded looks of both Ginny and Bill.

'I'm really sorry about her,' Bill said frowning. 'She's very protective and she'd heard –' here he shot a furtive glance at Fred, which much to the twin's relief, Elm missed. '- that you were attractive and are part wolfen,'

'I haven't heard that term for it,' Elm muttered absently, ignoring the line about her looks. 'George called it something different,'

'Well let's not dwell on it,' Ginny smiled. 'It wouldn't matter if you were part puffskein – although I don't think you'd like that much – we'd still like you so long as you were nice. Which you are, by the way,' Elm smiled appreciatively, nodding her head slightly towards the young woman.

Over the next twenty minutes, Elm spent much of it deep in conversation with Bill and Ginny, discussing things varying from muggle household appliances to wizarding laws and creatures. Occasionally Fred would butt his silvery head into the fray, but after several times of Elm ignoring him in favour of talking to the much politer Bill, he gave up, turning instead to talk to George and Harry, their voices hushed, their head inclined towards each other. Elm hardly noticed Fred and George's absence however, finding Bill's company to be far more pleasant as he recalled to her tales of his bravery during his curse-breaking days for the wizarding bank, Gringotts.

'It was there that I met Fleur, actually,' he said distractedly, his eyes wandering from Elm's face for the first time. She smiled at him kindly; finding herself in awe of their love for each other, a pang of jealousy coursed through her again.

'Yeah, he gave her private lessons in English,' Ginny laughed, winking theatrically at her eldest brother. He whacked her head playfully, turning back to Elm who suppressed a giggle.

'You got a boyfriend, then?' she noticed him shoot a covert glance at Fred and George who were yet again bickering amongst themselves, this time Elm could not tell over what. She followed his gaze, letting her eyes rest momentarily on Fred's transparent face, his eyes appearing much kinder as he spoke only to his twin.

'Nope, looks like I'm stuck with Tweeddale Dee and Tweeddale Dumb over there,' she inclined her thumb heavily, making Ginny spurt with laughter.

'Oh they're not that bad, really,' she said honestly. 'they just take a bit of getting used to. And of course, they're kinder to anyone who's got a good sense of humour – they never pick on me, for example,' she winked. Bill laughed, taking a sip of his drink.

'Well, then I'm surprised they pick on you so much,' he told Elm, flashing her a dazzling grin, much like Fred's own. Elm felt her heart pound and her cheeks flush red; she knew that Bill was married, but could not for the life of her ignore his flirtation. Apparently, neither could Ginny.

'Hey, you want to watch out how much you flirt there, dear brother, before Fleur comes back in and gives you another matching set of scars,' Elm looked at her quizzically – she had been told a werewolf had caused them.

'Am I missing something?' she asked tentatively, and Bill snorted.

'Fleur's part Veela – when they're mad, they turn into these terrifying creatures with claws and fire in their hands. They're quite deadly, to be honest, not that Fleur can turn into that; she just has a temper,' he smiled fondly.

'Which I'm sure Bill here loves dearly,' Ginny grinned wickedly. Bill nodded at her, nonplussed. As they continued their conversation, and Bill again continued to flirt with Elm, Mrs. Weasley walked through the door way, followed by Fleur, who seemed to have found the need to change into a dress that pulled the air from the room. Every head turned to look at her, and as she shot Elm a furious glare, she leant in to kiss Bill passionately on the lips. Fred wolf-whistled, drawing a snort of laughter from George who had taken a seat by Ginny's other side.

'I thought I would show you 'ow a real woman dresses, not a 'alf woman like 'er,' she jerked her head towards Elm, her flawless hair rolling over her shoulders.

'Don't go being jealous, Fleur,' Bill smiled, enjoying his wife's envy. 'A little flirting never did any harm,' he winked at Elm who yet again felt her face flush. A clattering of china hitting the table pulled their attention away from the squabbling couple, towards Fred who had chosen a seat next to Elm and opposite George. In the process of laying a large plate before him, he seemed to have dropped it – not because it had slipped through his quasi-corporeal fingers, but because they had opened, slackening their grip on the painted porcelain. He forced a grin, shooting his murderous eyes at Bill who shifted in his seat.

'Sorry about that,' he muttered in an obviously false jovial tone. 'Must really learn to keep my hand closed,' he brushed the fragments of shattered plate onto the floor, where a small walking dust pan stumbled up to them and gobbled them furiously into its mouth. Watching it totter off again, Fred took his seat. 'But others might want to learn to keep their mouths closed, instead,' he leered, avoiding all eyes but Bill's.

'Aw, is someone jealous that Elm's getting attention from someone else?' Ginny goaded, leaning out of the way as Mrs. Weasley leant over her to place a steaming pot of stew in the centre of the table; having long since given up her quest for a quiet dinner, she adamantly ignored their argument. Fred snorted, casting a derisive look at Elm and quirking his lip into a sneer. Elm's face reddened madly, her heart fluttering.

'Why would I be jealous of _that_?' he asked. 'I wouldn't flirt with Elm if you payed me,' he turned to look at George who was struggling to suppress a snort. 'Would you, George? I mean, some people find girls who look like they've had a fight with an angry cat attractive, but personally I'm more inclined to go for a woman with a few curves – flat doesn't quite do it for me,' this time George failed completely, laughter bursting so fully from him that he was in danger of falling from his chair. 'Yeah, Elm's got more of an 'I'm ugly, pity me,' look than anything else,'

Elm's face hardened, her eyes gaining a steely glare as she picked up her knife and shot it through Fred's left temple. The sheer force behind her throw pounded the knife into the far wall opposite, where it swayed casually, stuck deep into the plaster. Everyone froze, eyes flickering from Elm to Fred and back again; only Fleur moved, snickering viciously with another toss of her pearly hair. Elm was glad to see Fred turn a dazed eye towards her, his face as stunned as anyone's. Even Mrs. Weasley had ceased her bustling, her hands clutched to her chest as she watched Elm rise from her seat, her face no longer flushed, her hand quivering with anger.

'Well, then I guess it's a good thing that I generally like my men to have a bit of meat on their bones – or to have bones at all. Transparency and the inability to hold cutlery _doesn't quite do it for me_,' she hissed, glaring down at the still stunned and seated ghost. She felt her resolve waver as a look of hurt flashed through Fred's eyes, but he masked it quickly, turning it instead into loathing. 'And as for you –' she rounded on George who ceased laughing instantly. '- you can just fuck off. Sorry Mrs. Weasley, the food looks lovely,' she turned from the table, walking shakily towards the door leading into the yard, only stopping for long enough to garner a final glance at Fred's face – far from looking hurt anymore, he looked as though he would quite like to dislodge the knife from the wall and plant it firmly in Elm's brain.

'Well that serves you right, Fred Weasley,' Mrs. Weasley snapped, flicking her wand so that the trembling knife shot safely back onto the table. 'Saying all those horrible things – and as for her figure, she has lovely curves,' both Ron and Ginny snorted, but Fred merely glared at her mutinously. 'And as for you, George, you really should have known better!'

'What did I do?' he asked, outraged.

'You encouraged him! And you hurt her by laughing!'

'Oh come off it,' Fred hissed. 'If she's gonna go round looking like a five year old she might as well get used to the taunts! And it isn't my fault she's got a bloody uncontrollable temper,' he floated from his seat, turning away from the table at large.

Hermione glanced at his back nervously – she had seen Ron acting the same around her when she had briefly dated the Bulgarian Seeker Viktor Krum. 'Fred, i-if you like her, then you –' she stopped short, Fred's terrifyingly living eyes glaring burning holes through hers. The gentle silver glow they had all grown so accustomed to flashed lividly, not an ounce of transparency left within his face. Even George stopped, staring cautiously from his brother to Hermione.

'Don't! Why the _hell _would I like _her_?' he yelled, pointing his finger violently towards the door. 'I think I'd much rather settle for someone with a few more brains, a little less mouth.. and a bit more dead..' he looked for a moment as though he was going to continue speaking, but with a glance at George who nodded minutely, he glided from the room, his body shimmering through the wall next to the door Elm had left through moments before.

'Well that definitely put a downer on things,' George said pleasantly, turning to grin at Bill who couldn't help but look sheepish. 'Nice one there, mate,'

'Oh, George, will you go and find him? And find Elm while you're at it – make them apologise,' Mrs. Weasley sighed, waving her hand to signal everyone to begin eating; they did so ravenously.

'Why me?' George asked, his voice indignant. His mother glared at him, brandishing her wand in his face threateningly.

'Because you're his twin, and about the only one he damn well listens to,'

'Really, I'm his twin? You know, I'd always wondered why we looked the same..' Mrs. Weasley cuffed him round the head as everyone remaining at the table laughed into their drinks, Ginny spluttering hers onto Harry's sleeve. George stood, echoing Elm's footsteps as he left the room.

The air was frozen in the winter eve, all trees surrounding the Burrow fluttering in a slow breeze, the delicate carpet of snow un-offended by Fred's feet as he glided hollowly through the dark. A cacophony of soulless voices fluttered over the wind, brushing through Fred's tarnished skin, their pale hands of song bristling with a warning the dead man did not hear. In his anger and resented jealousy, he had travelled far from his mother's home, coming to rest in a pure white field some thousand metres from the flickering lights of the fly-away house's windows. He turned back to face it, glaring at the omnipresent glow with growing distain. Beside himself with wonderment as to Hermione's nerve, he continued floating, his feet grazing the lush, whitened heads of grass blades. Unaware of the frosted eyes following his figure, he tossed a hand into the snow, disturbing naught but air, and scowled.

'Stupid dead hands,' his voice hissed through the wind, carrying towards the waiting ears all but some twenty feet away from him. Stirring, the creature moved, silent, towards Fred, his pearly back still turned in ignorance.

'That is not a kind thing to say of your own body,' it's voice, harsh and cold, rang throughout Fred's temples, the echo of pain resounding in his mind. He turned, back arching, to face the shrouded being before him; it cocked it's head, a moment of consideration flashing over it's covered gaze. 'Or there lack of,' it amended thoughtfully. Fred appraised the newcomer carefully, reading him as though a book had fallen in his way. The creature – for that was all Fred could think to describe it – reached around eight feet in total, it's entire height clouded in a cloak as pitch as night, blurring deftly into the singing air, flowing incessantly though there was no longer a wind. It's eyes, though neither was in the slightest visible, followed Fred – this he knew, but did not know how- and a slow, rhapsideous song; tick tock, tick tock; fluttered through not only the folds of it's cloak, but the fabric of it's being, resting itself blithely amongst Fred's ears. For some greatly unknown reason, Fred wandered closer, his hand reaching for the darkened hood. Frozen, he stopped.

'Who are you? I generally prefer to sulk on my own, thanks,' the memory of his vocal chords chimed, dusting themselves free of shocked resolve. A chuckle, as low and mirthless as a dying spring billowed from the creature's nameless face.

'I am the one for whom you seek, and most desperately avoid,' again, it's head cocked low onto it's shrouded shoulder. Fred's face, puzzled, meant to blanche.

'Well, there's only one bloke I'm looking for right now, and he's definitely not going to follow me to some sodden field to gank me,' although his voice was sure, Fred cast his eyes uncertainly towards the glimmering house before turning back to the creature, now laughing gently. It took a step closer, pushing Fred further into the trees surrounding them.

'I'm most afraid to tell you, but you are wrong. I would follow you anywhere to 'gank you', Mr. Frederick Gideon Weasley,' Again, the creature took a step closer. 'You have been given a second chance, and in return, you flaunt it, seeking, if I am not mistaken, a way to return to the living. This, I cannot abide,' another step. Fred felt the lowest hanging leaves adorning the nearest trees brush ecstatically through his hair.

'Well, I must say, I've been looking for a way to hop across the pond to the other side as well, but seeing as that other – er – opportunity crossed my path first, I felt I should go for that one. Unless –'

'I will not take you to your ancestors, Frederick,' another step. Fred's breathing hitched, the memory of a pulse ringing soundlessly in his veins. 'You have angered me, and so will cross to the Half Lands. You have angered me and I am Death,' before Fred could speak, before breath could be drawn through his pale, lifeless lips, Death's fingers wound their way through his mouth, his nose, his eyes, calling the memory of every living cell to scream, pounding pain and agony through sinew and hair and bone. Everything waned – sight, sound, even names. All he knew was pain and Death's fingers clawing every moment of life away from his silent, ghostly heart.

Even before a fleck of fear sidled through Fred's body, before a hopeless, yearning longing fluttered over his absent heart, an entirely different figure stood perched in the cold; a figure of chided mirth, brilliant eyes as green as a last mile, and laden scars silhouetted in the dark. She had been staring blindly away from the Burrow for longer than she knew, careful, quiet tears rolling over face and fabric as they fell away from her eyes; a slow, beaded hope buried deep within her heart was shrinking, rapidly cauterized by Fred's harsh words. She thought his name, feeling with grim satisfaction, a tiny glimmer of hate, burning brighter as she thought it again.

She had not been even vaguely aware of when that tiny benign hope had spawned into something more, something tangible, but there she was, growing ever colder as the inescapability of her affection for Fred fed itself into her conscious. It did not seem feasible to her that someone who lacked a body could cause her so much jealousy, and make her heart clench at the thought of his face or his laugh, yet there she was. She did not even fully understand what it was about his wild demeanour that she found so inexplicably charming; his jokes usually did nothing but insult her, yet every time she told herself enough was becoming enough, another strangled desire to hear him mock her bombarded her mind.

Hearing clumsy, out of focus footsteps approaching behind her head, Elm turned, catching a sodden flash of red and a pair of drowsy brown-flushed eyes – George had finally found her.

'What do you want,' there was not a hint of question within her voice, her tone flat and guarded. George chuckled, leaning down to take a careful seat by her side, perched precariously on an unbalanced rock.

'Well, I did come out here for the weather, but after falling face-first into the snow a few dozen times, I think I've out grown my love for wet, freezing sludge,' he nudged his elbow devilishly into her ribs, threatening to de-seat her, however Elm had not the heart to chide him; his dishevelled hair and soaking cloak mollified her anger somewhat, allowing her to leave him sitting comfortably by her side. A few moments later, she again asked her question.

'What are you doing here, George? I meant what I said,'

'Nah you didn't,' he sniffed resolutely, folding his arms tightly across his well-wrapped chest. 'I'm here to find you, numb-nuts – although right now, I'm pretty sure that's me,' Elm had to laugh, her lips pulling tight as the cold restricted the movement of her skin. A warmth spread through her chest, nothing at all to do with the body by her side and everything to do with George himself.

'Okay, so I didn't mean it. I'm still not going back in – I don't fancy seeing Fred anytime soon,' a small hiccough escaped her at the mention of his name, a delicate throb resonating in the deepest pits of her stomach. George laughed.

'Oh don't let that git bother you – he's a knob, I thought you would have worked that one out by now? He says one thing, and means another,'

'And how do you know that?' as soon as the words became verbal Elm smirked, placing a hand dramatically over her face. 'Stupid question,'

'Yeah,' George said, patting her head affectionately. 'But also 'cause that's what I do. All in all we're pretty similar,' he winked stupidly, slipping dangerously from his perch. Elm grabbed his arm, re-seating him.

'Do you think he likes me then? I feel daft talking about this with you,'

'I feel like I've lost around a third of my brain cells thanks to this conversation. But yes, in all honesty, I reckon he does. You'll have to ask him though,' he stood, turning his back on Elm as he shuffled his feet defiantly, cursing the cold spread seeping through his numbing toes. 'Alrighty, now we've got that drama sorted, fancy helping me find the bleeding pillock so we can get back inside? I quite like all my appendages intact,' however, he did not wait for a reply, instead traipsing somewhat more deftly through the snow, following a blind line towards a deserted white field containing nothing bar a small, flickering silver figure.

Fred chocked on Death's hand, attempting to rear away but finding himself held tight. His mind bled, his feet, usually corporeal enough to stand planted on the earth, slid down, all pretence of life evaporating as rapidly as it had four years prior. Death's grip increased, mottled, greying fingers putrefying the air, all life – be it real or a memory – withering into dust. Attempting to cry out, Fred found his feet once more, gripping through his failing strength to the sleeve of Death's robes so as to over-balance him; not an ounce of weight Fred could muster appeared to have an effect, leaving Death's shrouded face grinning. Again Fred called, voice muffled, names fading as memories, people, places began to die.

Even the pain began to wane, he noticed with reverence, relishing the sense of fading as no longer could he feel Death's hand gripping his face, chocking his soul right out of him. His eyes rolled, casting towards the sky and resting on an ancient Elm tree he and George had once played beneath. _Elm.._

A face cascaded into view; a beautiful, young, scarred face with eyes of the most envious green. A face, he realised, that he knew. Death's hold tightened, a surge of life bubbling into the Reaper's hand as Fred began to fight, a wave of longing elevating his soul. However, soon the pain returned, forcing a shrill cry; at last air whipped through his paled lips as an unexpected bolt of life separated the two dead men. Fred's face slammed against the snow, the gentle white distorting wildly through his fading silver face; he breathed, words chiming against his chest as they echoed forth into the cold night air. He screamed for them again and again, the call carrying farther than even Death had expected, soon enough drawing to him the aid he so desperately needed.

George lead the way across the snow washed earth, the Burrow's many warming lights growing ever less visible as they beat their path away from it. The air whipped through his one remaining ear, burning the hole left visible on his head's other side, blurring into an agonised call. He paused, musing over the sound of it – it was almost familiar, a recognisable voice sounding as though it were buried deep below water. He listened closer, straining his ears, both whole and departed as it carried over the breeze; words. The wind had bought him words.

'Elm, can you -?' he turned, half expecting to see Elm's face cocked in mild concentration as she too contemplated the voices in the air, however as his eyes met where hers should have been, he caught nothing but a bolting jet of brown as her hair whipped out behind her running frame. 'Elm!'

She did not stop; instead she cast a look towards the living twin, wild panic welling in her eyes. Her lips quivered as she called 'Fred! It's him – the voice in the wind – it's him!'

George did not hesitate. Pulling a slender piece of wood from an inside pocket of his robes, he flung himself into a frozen run, his feet soon carrying him in line with Elm's, their eyes leading them towards the distantly struggling figure of their dear dead friend.

Elm could hear nothing above her breathing; heaving panting gasps, rattling her rib cage as though both lungs had come free of their bindings, but she did not stop, instead sliding a hand through George's fingers as he pulled her further on, their pace quickening as Fred came into view. Death had again taken hold of the ghost, his fingers entwined in his face, Fred's shadowy existence flickering perilously as he continued to fade into the waiting Half lands. Elm cried out, pushing her aching muscles on, aiming to dive directly between the beast and her Fred, only to be held in defiance by George's warm arm.

'No – Don't! He'll kill you!' turning, George fired no warning shot, but a bolt of brilliant green enveloping the Reaper's shawls. Fred dropped like a stone, writhing and heaving as even without Death's hand, the gentle colour drained from his face, his body falling closer and closer to evaporating completely. Death turned to the living twin, whirls of red lighting behind his hood as he cast a hand over Fred's failing memory drawing a shrill, crackling cry.

Elm flew to his side, her hands falling mercilessly through his face as she cradled his head, a slight, silver tear trickling numbly over her thumb. She whimpered, unable even to hold him as he became ever more unreal before her eyes. 'Fred, no, no, no.. I'm so sorry,' no words could encapsulate her meaning, a simple gesture far too little to convey her thoughts. She glanced up, catching sight of red-headed figures darting over the fence, converging on all sides, mirthless blues and reds and greens firing relentlessly onto the hooded, cloaked figure of Death.

The being was beginning to fail; it's cloak torn an battered, its hands bloodied and raw, it turned to face for one last time, the disappearing ghost resting in Elm's hands. A harsh, song-like voice entranced the air around them, lending it's words sound. 'This is not the last time I will come for him – beware or face a fate worse than he,' a skeletal hand, so pale it reflected the vapours of light, extended, pointing ominously towards Fred who now lay silent, his eyes half closed and rolled. Turning amidst a final flurry of jinxes, Death's robes billowed away from his body, curling around him as they distorted and burnt, burying him in the midst of an entirety of smoke. Once it had cleared, George rushed forwards, falling by his brother's side.

'Fred? Fred can you -?' his voice gave a strangled yelp, most unlike his own. He looked desperately from Elm to those surrounding them; Bill, Harry, Ginny, Ron, Mrs. Weasley, who she assumed to be Mr. Weasley and Percy, Fleur, Hermione. No one moved. 'Someone – someone do something! Is he okay?'

Mr. Weasley took a step closer, lowering himself until he sat against the ground on his haunches. Leaning towards his son, his brow furrowed; the laws regarding health for ghosts were widely unchartered. He had no idea where to begin.

'M-Mr. Weasley?' Elm stuttered, stroking a finger gently down the edge of Fred's left temple – although almost undetectable, Elm was sure she could feel a hole, as though something large had struck him there. Mr. Weasley looked at her askance. 'We should get him inside – I-I don't think the cold's helping him,' everyone surrounding them nodded, George reaching a hand out towards Fred's shoulder but freezing as it slid unobstructed through it. Unable to help himself, he chuckled.

'What could possibly be funny about this?' Hermione asked, voice shocked. George looked at her for a moment before answering.

'Well, think about it – _how_ are we going to get him inside?' opening her mouth to retort, she stopped, a puzzled look flitting across her features. Bill laughed, shifting his feet awkwardly.

'That's a bleeding good question,' Ron muttered, his freckled face drained of colour as though reflecting Fred. He jumped as Hermione threw a hand into the air, her face alight with suggestion.

'I have it! Harry, in our second year Nearly-Headless Nick was petrified!' she glanced imploringly at the young wizard with startling green eyes, but he merely stared back, completely bewildered.

'Yes, so were a lot of people, Hermione,' he told her slowly, drawing out his words as though she were stupid. 'How does that help?' Hermione only smiled at him, glancing back and forth to George. After a moment her mouth dropped, the muscles appearing to slacken in disbelief.

'You are kidding me – none of you have caught on?' after waiting for an answer that never came she continued. 'Harry, how did you tell me they got him to the Hospital Wing?' it was Harry's turn to light his face in realisation. He pushed forwards until he stood between Elm and George, staring down at the pearly face of Fred Weasley. Waving his wand, he conjured from the air a large fan, the wings rotating slowly. George reluctantly stood away from his brother, who still rested somewhere in Elm's knees. Harry flicked his wand, increasing the speed with which the wings spun until they kicked up enough air to shift Fred's infinitesimal weight; he stirred slightly, turning his head so as to face Elm, his eyes fluttering. The breeze created by the fan increased, wafting him away from her and slowly up towards the house. It was one of the strangest sights Elm had ever seen; Fred floating unevenly above the ground, George looking on, solemn and down-cast, the remainder of the family shuffling awkwardly in their wake.

Entering the kitchen, Elm stood aside, allowing George to pass, and watched as he took control of the whirring fan to transfer Fred to their floor of the house. Elm fell into a seat, her eyes swimming as they took in the half emptied dinner plates scattered over the table. Dejectedly picking a fork up between her fingers, she stabbed at a piece of meat, feeling panic rise within her like bile. She clapped a hand to her mouth, turned to her right, chair and all, and threw up unceremoniously into the kitchen sink, the remaining Weasley's and Potter's watching carefully. A glass of water held itself out to her, grasped in the freckled hand of Bill – he let go as she took it, taking an uneasy sip.

'Sorry,' she gasped once she had finished, pointing covertly at that morning's breakfast. Bill smiled kindly, his eyes sad.

'Don't worry,' he waved his wand, cleaning the mess in an instant. 'Not a lot that magic can't fix,' he walked away from her, wrapping an arm around Fleur's waist and pulling her in for a hug. A sharp jolt resonated throughout Elm, making her look away, her eyes falling instead on Harry who continued to watch her.

'Why don't you take a seat in the lounge dear?' Mrs. Weasley asked, her voice strained, her already fly-away hair sprouting off in all directions. Elm nodded weakly, standing to walk across the room. However, no more than three steps across, a loss of sight and sound crashed over her, pushing her hard onto the floor. Tears leaked over the edges of her eyes, sound willowing back into her brain as people began to fuss, hoards of red clouding her vision.

'I'll take her through,' the voice was familiar; calm and collected, it reverberated through the room, it's owner stooping down to collect one of Elm's arms. Harry lifted her, pushing the others back so as to make room before leading her gently towards a sofa tucked neatly into a far corner, it's arms brushing dangerously close to the crackling fire. Sitting her down closest to the flames, he took a seat beside her, glancing nervously at Ginny as he did so; she nodded, smiling slightly as Elm instinctively curled a hand around his, his fingers closing in response.

The gesture, although comforting, became a painful reminder after a while and so Elm broke it off, settling instead for discussing in hushed voices various topics of passing interest. As time went on more and more people ascended the stairs, exhaustion overcoming their will to stay awake, until finally they gave in, accepting defeat. The house, now silent bar the two remaining voices of Ginny and Ron emanating from the kitchen, felt peaceful, George's thunderous snores sounding down the many flights of stairs. Elm cocked her head, listening; if only she could catch a note of Fred's.. no luck. Sighing in resignation, she felt her mind weave, Harry's words becoming blurred, her head falling heavier and heavier into sleep.

'I know you care about him, Elm,' his words took her completely by surprise, jolting her eyes wide open and her head ram-rod straight. She looked at him quizzically, bleary green meeting bleary green. 'No good can come of it, you do know that, don't you?'

Elm glared. If there was one thing she hated, it was advice. 'Yes, I do. But last time I checked, feelings don't have an off switch. If they did I'd be asleep right now,' Harry smiled at her knowingly, checking his watch on reflex. 'Sorry,' she sighed, slumping lower into her seat. 'I know I can't like him – but what can I do?'

'I don't know,' he said softly, his eyes conveying the warmth his face had earlier lacked. 'I'm sorry,'

'Don't apologise – I wasn't expecting a miracle. If everything goes according to plan, there might..' her voice trailed off, leaving Harry hanging and wanting to hear more. That kind of talk when in regard to the twins had always made him nervous, causing him to assume they were planning something terrible. All the look of hope and fear etched into Elm's features did for him was add to this growing sense of dread. He shook his head, turning instead to stare at Ginny, who had fallen asleep against Ron's arm; he too was dozing off, his head lolling precariously forwards, his hands slipping from around his empty butterbeer bottle. A weight pressed down onto his shoulder, startling him. Looking to his left, he saw Elm, her face pressed into the crook of his neck, her eyes closed as she lay spark out, her mouth hanging open while gentle, low breaths rocked her back and forth. He felt his own eyes close – the tick tock of the clock became louder, slower, the creaking of the house falling ever closer around him, voices edging into the corners of his subconscious until finally, his head rolled, landing softly against the dark brown hair covering Elm's sleeping figure.


End file.
